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Souji knows it’s better if they just get to it, but as always, Adachi stands idle in the doorway of Souji’s bedroom, gaze averted with his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his slacks. He’s aloof, distracted, focused on anything and everything that isn’t Souji or precariously placed futon set in the middle of the floor—like the ceiling, for instance, and the walls, then a half-built garage kit that sits on the shelf to his left.
Souji sighs. It confuses him the way Adachi chooses to play at this—as though he doesn’t want it, like it wasn’t his idea in the first place. It’s been months, and he still isn’t sure if Adachi thinks acting dumb somehow absolves him of responsibility for what they’re doing or if he’s simply embarrassed by how easily Souji can get him worked up. Whatever the reason, he never shows any resistance when Souji pulls on the lapels of his jacket, pushes him down onto the floor, and crawls over on top of him.
“You’ve been looking at me all night, Adachi-san,” Souji reminds him, whispering, tugging at Adachi’s wrinkled tie and pulling it loose. His legs swing over Adachi’s waist as he mouths at his jawline where the faint hint of cheap cologne wafts up from his neck and the threadbare fabric of his slightly too big suit.
It’s endearing. Attractive, even. So it goes with Adachi, as usual—Souji can never quite pinpoint why he finds anything about this person endearing at all. Still, it’s by far not the strangest thing that’s happened since moving to Inaba. In fact, if asked, Souji would insist that sleeping with someone nearly ten years his senior is rather low on the list of things that have given him pause. Wanting Adachi, wanting to help Adachi—that’s just natural, a sort of compulsion, something that Souji wants to do out of the kindness of his own heart.
Falling headfirst into a secret television world and awakening to your very own Jungian manifestation of an ancient god? Now, that’s much more bizarre.
“I saw you,” Souji murmurs again, softer, quieter, fingers kneading into the barely-there flesh that covers Adachi’s arms. “You’ve been staring.” At my hands, he doesn’t say, and at my ass. “You didn’t drink any of the sake Dojima-san offered, either.”
“Yeah? Well, maybe I wasn’t thirsty,” Adachi quips. Though he’s frowning, brows creased tightly together, his eyes are twinkling, sparkling, shining a downright bright and brilliant white that cuts clean through the darkness. “Whatever. Anyway, look,” he says, ignoring the way Souji swivels his hips into the hard edge of his belt buckle, “it’s not like you’re special. You know exactly what you’ve been doing.”
Souji hums. “And what’s that?”
“Teasing me,” Adachi mutters, lifting slightly and shrugging out of his jacket. “Tempting me”—his fingers flick open the first few buttons on his shirt—“and making me want you. You know Dojima-san would get my ass if he knew what we’ve been doing.” He tries, and then fails, to take off his socks with his toes. “So, cool it.”
Souji can’t deny it. Sure, it’s risky, but it’s not like anyone would even notice—least of all a tired, overworked Dojima. Tonight, for instance, like most nights, Dojima has drunk himself into a stupor, his sleeping body half-near comatose on the sofa downstairs. It isn’t ideal, but there’s not much Souji can do to help Dojima at this point other than push harder at his own investigation.
“I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful,” Souji says, meaning it. In some ways, he figures, it’s a blessing. It’s not lost on him how much easier it is to sneak Adachi up the stairs and around the corner when his uncle is distracted. “Let me take care of you. I want to.” Souji leans forward, but Adachi turns his head.
“Oh, can it,” he says, and Souji’s lips hit his cheek instead. “Cut the foreplay, too. We both know why you’re here.” In one smooth, elongated motion, he unloops his belt and tosses it. The buckle jingles, soft and tinny, when it hits the tatami. “You want to fuck,” he says, like Souji doesn’t know, like they’re not already half-naked on the floor with Adachi’s growing hardness hot and thick against the crotch of Souji’s sweatpants. “Isn’t that all you teenagers care about, anyway? You don’t need to hide it from me. I already know." He tugs, rough, at Souji's hair. "I’m ready for you, anyway. Come on.”
Souji wants to say: no, that’s not it. Not really, at least. What Souji really wants is to help people. He wants to be a good person, to solve the murders and keep his friends and family safe. He would also like, if possible, to kiss Adachi without being denied. But, even like this—erect, flat on his back, head lolled onto his shoulder and eyes lidded—Adachi is too good at skirting responsibility. And, he might be right. Souji is already hard, anyway, and he’s planned this. He’s set the futon on the floor himself, and Adachi is hungry and waiting, reaching down to grab at himself with one hand and finger himself with another. There’s really no way to say or do anything otherwise.
Souji shucks the waistband of his sweats down to mid-thigh.
“Yeah,” Adachi says under his breath. His legs spread wider. “That’s what I thought.”
Sex with Adachi is strange. Intense. Good.
“You feel amazing,” Souji says, pulling out a little to lessen the heat. He knows how he sounds (dumb, too earnest, overly sincere), but Adachi wasn’t lying. His insides are warm and wet, just loose enough to make it obvious that he’s been intermittently fucking himself for the last twenty-four hours. Souji doesn’t know if it was merely in preparation or something else, but the thought of it—of Adachi at the station, in his apartment, wanting this badly enough to touch himself—is a punch straight to the goddamn gut.
“Adachi-san,” he whimpers. He wants this so bad. “You—”
“Hey, hey,” Adachi is babbling, interrupting, rolling his hips and pushing Souji in deeper. “Hurry it up, yeah?” His tone is sharp, acidic, but when they do this there isn’t any part of him that isn’t—his tongue, his mouth, the knife-like jut of his ankle that hooks behind Souji’s back and digs in just deep enough to hurt. “I’ve got places to be in the morning. Is this how you fuck everyone? At a snail’s pace? Jeez, kid.”
Souji stills, mid-thrust, and though it's only a second of hesitation, Adachi is talented at picking things apart.
“Oh, please. Don’t lose your boner. Calm down,” he says, sliding a hand underneath Souji’s shirt and pinching at a nipple. His fingers are cold, clammy despite the warmth between them. “Don’t think that I don’t know how you see me. Like I’m your little pet project of the week. You do this with everyone, don’t you?" He laughs, pleased with himself. "Get close to them, solve their problems with your dick. It’s a win-win.”
“No,” Souji says, then, “fuck,” because Adachi is moving, pushing him off and climbing on top to sink back down.
“Come on. You can be honest. It’s not going to hurt my feelings. I bet you’re fucking them all. Tell me, are you just as terrible in bed with that Junes kid as you are with me?” His face softens, hands caressing Souji’s cheek in such a close approximation of real intimacy that it nearly stings. “Do you show him all your best moves? Does he kiss you back?”
Adachi’s tongue swipes over Souji’s mouth, dipping inside, and, despite himself, Souji moans loud, unfettered. His hips stutter up into Adachi’s tight heat.
“That’s more like it! Fuck me, come on, come on—"
Later, once Adachi’s used up the last of his energy talking himself hoarse and spilling into a series of crumpled-up tissues, he rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling in silence.
“You’re wrong, you know,” Souji says honestly, stupidly, showing too much of his hand. He hasn’t come yet—he’s still hard, balls sitting tight up against his body—but it doesn’t matter. It’s enough just taking in Adachi's flushed red chest and softening pink cock. “You’re different. I’m not doing this with anyone else.”
“You don’t have to say that shit,” Adachi says, rolling his eyes. “It doesn’t matter.” He gropes for his pants, fishing through their pockets for his cell phone to check the time. “Listen, it’s been fun.” He gestures to Souji, pointedly looking away. “You can handle that, right?”
Souji nods. He’s used to this. Of course he can handle it. “Don’t worry about me,” he says, plastering on his biggest smile. “Please, get home safely.”